


45. Loneliness

by howelleheir



Series: DS9 100 Theme Challenge [8]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alien Gender/Sexuality, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 11:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17744804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/pseuds/howelleheir
Summary: Weyoun and Dukat experience a moment of isolation, and neither of them wants to feel alone.





	45. Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> Just a friendly heads up -- my head-canon Vorta genitals are basically a *really* sleek and simplified vulva, so if that sort of thing freaks you out, triggers you, or just isn't your cup of tea, you may want to skip this one.

Three months into Cardassia's incorporation into the Dominion, in the dead of summer on Cardassia Prime, the entire government was indulging in a peculiar quirk of tradition: the Annual Recess. For three weeks, the hottest time of year in the capital, the entire machine came grinding to a halt and Central Command stood vacant, all its occupants fleeing to cooler climes. But while the Cardassians may have been on holiday, Weyoun was still hard at work, though no one would recognize it as such — he had accompanied Dukat to his family home, a sprawling manor on the outskirts of the city of Lakat.

As Weyoun understood it, the house had sat unoccupied since Dukat's separation from his wife, and since all of the household staff had been under  _ her _ employment, no one had tended to it or its grounds in over a year. As a result, the surrounding countryside had encroached upon the house, a particularly proliferous breed of burrowing vine spreading all along its outer walls, casting its roots deep into the stone and cracking the windows, allowing the summer storms to throw fine red dust all over the mosaic floors.

Impassive as Dukat ever was, Weyoun still managed to catch a shade of grief flickering through his expression as they entered the cavernous entryway — only momentary, and then he quickly excused himself. 

Weyoun had to suppress a laugh when Dukat returned a few minutes later, stripped of his armor and carrying a broom and dustpan and a bucket of water draped with a dozen damp rags, his hair bound back from his face and sorrow replaced by stubborn determination.

Although he wasn't one for scrubbing floors, Weyoun did his best to assist by occasionally bringing fresh water and emptying the bin. The cleanup effort took up the entirety of their first day, but beyond that, it became difficult to find anything to occupy their time. The house had been stripped of everything but the furniture, and so Weyoun and Dukat spent many of their hours in conversation. 

At first, they steered clear of personal matters — Dukat was guarded where his privacy was concerned, and Weyoun knew better than to press him — but after a few days, they had run out of war stories and Dukat began to let more and more slip, especially on the fifth night, when the temperature briefly dropped into a range that Weyoun considered perfectly comfortable, and Dukat considered “frigid”. The compromise they found was to leave the climate control off and to build a fire in the stone hearth of the main living area. Dukat pulled a chair close to the fire, and Weyoun settled nearby on the floor, where the draft from under the door cooled his skin, modesty completely abandoned, wearing only a thin, light blue  _ tchematikar. _

“The last time we lit a fire here,” Dukat began, his voice strangely soft, “I’d taken a few days’ leave from Terok Nor and come home. It was a bad winter. This house is old; below a certain temperature, the climate control system can't keep up, so I lit a fire to supplement it. Mekor — my youngest — was playing too close to the hearth. He slipped on the stones. Nasty burns, all over his arms where he fell. After that, no matter how cold it got, Athra wouldn't allow a fire to be lit, not even once Mekor was old enough to know better.”

Perhaps it was the pain ghosting over Dukat's eyes as he mentioned his wife's name, or the oppressive dark and quiet of the house, or the fact that Weyoun's own existence had been so similarly solitary lately — whatever the cause, something possessed him to shift close to Dukat's chair and, curled at his feet, rest his head on his knee giving a wordless hum as he leaned into the hand that threaded into his hair. Touch was such a rare commodity that his chest seized up in response. 

Dukat must have heard his tight, unsteady exhale, because he leaned down and pulled him from the floor, drawing him up into his lap. Weyoun momentarily considered whether this counted as “establishing rapport”, but any reservations he had were abandoned in short order as Dukat cupped a hand over his cheek and tilted his head to kiss him on the mouth, slow and deep and tasting faintly of the cloying, syrupy kanar he'd had with dinner.

Weyoun was out of his depth — while it was certainly  _ adjacent,  _ this wasn't exactly his line of work — and his hands trembled as he dragged his palms over Dukat's chest, fumbling downward to find the hem of his shirt and yank it up insistently, tossing it to the floor, touching every inch of skin he could reach. That seemed to give Dukat all the permission he needed to lift Weyoun as he stood and, with a sharp turn, drop him into the chair and tear open the clasps of his  _ tchematikar. _

“Lovely,” he hummed, leaving a trail of kisses over his collarbones and down his chest, sliding off of him into the floor as he reached the knotted waistband of the garment. Weyoun's fingers dug into the arms of the chair when he felt warm breath on him through the fabric.

Dukat balled his fists around either side of the waistband and pulled, splitting the center seam  and giving a low, throaty laugh at Weyoun's startled cry. As he pushed the torn fabric away, he dipped his head low between Weyoun's thighs. Dukat's tongue dragged slowly up his slit, sending a sensation somewhat like an electric shock through his belly, forcing his eyes shut, back arched, teeth clenched tight with a strangled hiss. 

The more Dukat's mouth worked over over him, the more difficult it became to keep quiet, and within minutes, he had broken out into a sweat, gasping for breath between the cries he stifled with a palm pressed hard to his face. 

When Dukat pulled away, he tangled a hand into his hair in protest, but Dukat caught it by the wrist, pressing soothing kisses to his fingers.

“I was only stopping to say there's no one else here,” he said pointedly, an amused smirk playing across his swollen lips. “Nothing wrong with showing a little appreciation.”

Weyoun nodded, relaxing back into the chair and letting him grip the backs of his knees and push his legs up and open.

And then his mouth was on him again, and Weyoun made no effort to suppress the low groan than issued from deep in his chest at being enveloped in that wet heat. Dukat was no longer exploring — he had thoroughly mapped out the territory, and the movements of his lips over flesh were now deliberate, purposeful, driving toward a singular goal. Weyoun's hands found their way back into his hair, fingers grasping and pulling, his cries splitting the heavy air, shattering the house's silence.

The sensation took on a sharpness, every insistent stroke of Dukat's tongue cutting straight through him and gathering in the pit of his stomach, a slowly-building, coiling pressure — and then Dukat moaned around him, the sound reverberating through his bones, and the tension suddenly snapped, tearing through his trembling limbs in shuddering waves until he collapsed, listless and panting, into the cushions.

Dukat, his head rested in the crook of Weyoun's knee, ran a soothing palm over the inside of one thigh and idly kissed at the other. The quiet settled over the house again, but it was no longer the same suffocating gloom — it was a comfortable, sated calm that wrapped around them both, broken only by the crackling of the fire and an occasional soft, contented sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> -Tchematikar is a full-body undergarment worn by most Vorta to protect their clothing. The name translates to "temple uniform" as a version of the garment is worn in the Tchemat -- a sort of monastic temple used for important rituals in the Vorta religion.


End file.
